


The Fourth Clue.  A Johnlock First Time

by Ghislainem70



Series: Overcome: The Sherlock PWPs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:59:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghislainem70/pseuds/Ghislainem70
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <strong>Sherlock leaves four clues for John.  Guess what he's trying to tell him.</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fourth Clue.  A Johnlock First Time

**Author's Note:**

> An update of this first time fic.

The Fourth Clue: A Johnlock First Time

**Sherlock leaves four clues for John. Guess what he’s trying to tell him.**

The dj was bloated, drained of color except for an ugly, deep purplish weal around his neck. Gerry Gilmore, aka DJ Gillette, had been in the middle of a world tour. This wound, Sherlock had announced, had been made by the murderer’s ligature. Sherlock was examining the ligature— a peacock blue strip of silk— with complete absorption, sniffing it, looking closely at its fibers, and stroking it through his latex-gloved fingers.

John looked away, casting for something else in this decadently furnished hotel suite to occupy his attention. He pulled open the Vuitton suitcase and rummaged through a jumble of studded leather and bohemian feathered bits. In the bottom of the case, a long silk pajama robe in the same extravagant colour as the ligature. John held it up to the light as Sherlock moved into his line of sight.

John found himself possessed of a vision of Sherlock wearing this robe. Mostly, of how it would bring out the colour in his eyes. Anything else he might have momentarily imagined was ruthlessly suppressed, something he was getting either better or worse at, depending on his perspective on any given day. John blinked the vision away and made a conspicuous show of examining the robe’s pockets for evidence. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"The killer knew the victim quite well," Sherlock announced. "The robe was well hidden and several more suitable ligatures were readily to hand —". Sherlock indicated with a flourish a second robe, this one of scarlet silk, crumpled at the foot of the bed with the belt tie dangling, vivid as a trail of fresh blood. The open closet also revealed numerous long scarves and leather belts, any of which would have been suitable for a ligature.

"Couldn’t the killer have been wearing the red robe, though?" John asked.

"He could have done, but he wasn’t. The red robe has the same scent of men’s cologne as is still detectable on the victim…hmmmm, Versace for Men… most noticeable at the nape of the neck. Also, the victim drank a single malt, I’d say Glenfidditch 30-year, in a large shot immediately before retiring. See, the stain has dried completely but is plainly visible down the front of the robe. It still smells distinctly of spirits. The victim therefore threw off the robe because he had spilled drink down the front and it was quite wet. He left the robe there, then fell straight into bed, and our killer was lying in wait. The killer was wearing a leather jacket or leather gloves, or perhaps both. There are minute leather fragments under the victim’s fingernails."

Sherlock fell silent after his staccato summary, his pale gaze unfocussed. John and Lestrade watched, anticipating one of Sherlock’s leaps of deduction that seemed to John like clairvoyance, even now. Sherlock ignored them, tossing the dj’s wardrobe in random messy piles until it began to resemble the floor of his own room in Baker Street. The leather pieces received minute attention from Sherlock’s miniature magnifying lens.

"And here we are," Sherlock cried, thrusting a black leather jacket at Anderson, who looked repelled. "Two colors of leather. There are brown gloves in the pocket. The killer wore them to protect against the victim clawing at him, and to guard against fingerprints. Obviously premeditated. The murderer took the belt from the robe out of the suitcase. He planned to use it as the ligature all along. Therefore, the killer knew the victim well enough to be familiar with the victim’s wardrobe on this leg of the tour."

"An obsessed fan?" posited Lestrade.

"Possible, but one with intimate familiarity with the victim’s wardrobe. A fan for whom the blue robe had particular importance, as it was chosen for the ligature over several more easily accessible items in the room."

"Maybe the killer didn’t see the red robe at all, and that’s why he used the other one," John argued, "…maybe he waited till after the victim was asleep. The room would have been dark."

"Perhaps, John. Not bad. But if it was dark, how did he find the blue robe? In fact the bedside lamp was left on and was still on when the victim was found this morning. So, the killer wanted to see the victim, maybe to talk to him. Or maybe the killer wanted the victim to see him and more importantly, see the blue ligature, before he died. Did you see how the ligature was tied? In a careful bow around the victim’s neck. No, that robe was special."

Sherlock turned to John, whose eyes kept straying to the blue robe. “We need to find out who bought this particular robe within the past 3 months. It’s no older than that. A recent gift, perhaps.”

"Is the killer a man or a woman?" Lestrade asked.

"Most likely a man, could be a very strong woman. Great upper arm strength. And if the killer gave the robe to the victim, it is more likely from a male lover …given that particular shade of blue."

Anderson snorted. “Gerry Gilmore was one of the most notorious ladies’ men in Europe! He had more supermodels than the Italian prime minister.”

Sherlock curled a lip scornfully and he did not deign to respond. He met John’s gaze steadily with what felt to John to be some attempt to communicate, but as usual, John was baffled as to what. He looked away, trying to ignore the undeniable fact that his heart was racing and definitely suppressing any thoughts whatsoever as to why.

* * *

John visited the very small, very exclusive shop in Bond Street that made bespoke men’s pajamas for breathtaking fees, and learned that the robe had been ordered by a man named “John Smith,” paid for in cash, and had been patterned after a robe the man had brought in to match.

"Red silk, it was. The robe he brought in to match. Of course we had the measurements on file for that client, but this individual didn't want it known that the robe was being bought for him. Mr. Gillmore. Always happy to accommodate a special client."

Here the clerk, who was polished to a superhuman sheen, gave a brief, discreet but sly look to John that seemed to imply a particular meaning to the word “special.” John exited the shop hastily and texted Sherlock what he had learned.

Then he texted him that he would not be back tonight.

He turned off his mobile before Sherlock could make any contemptuous new observations about John’s planned nocturnal activities with his date, Sharon. Sharon was a nicely put together PR agent with sharply groomed blonde hair. She wore abundant vanilla musk perfume that left John feeling like he was being enveloped by a giant cupcake. But she was cheerful, and willing.

That night he found himself unceremoniously shaken awake at 4:00 a.m. Sharon looked very cross.

"You were talking in your sleep. Again," she accused. John muttered something about nightmares, but Sharon retorted, "All I heard was _'Sherlock'_.'"

They both looked down at his undeniable erection.

Sharon claimed an early morning meeting and gave John the heave-ho, leaving him certain he was being crossed off her list.   _Not that I wanted to be on her list,_ he muttered. Or anyone's list. He thought about the old Army mate that had called him for drinks, or more if he was up for it. John found that he wasn't.

It was so early that none of his usual haunts when avoiding Baker Street in general, and Sherlock Holmes specifically, were open. Apparently of their own volition, John’s footsteps returned to 221b.

Sherlock was scraping aggressively on his violin. There was something different about the flat. A small path had been cleared through the detritus of Sherlock’s books, papers, stuffed bats, assorted undefinable skeletal remains, vials of noxious substances, autopsy photographs, etc., terminating at a handsome mahogany breakfast table and chair shoved between the double windows. With huge surprise, John noted a steaming pot of tea and a single cup at the otherwise uncluttered table. There was also today’s newspaper, reassembled with unprecedented care.

"Where did we get this?" John asked casually as he shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the battered coatrack. The coatrack had most recently been used by Sherlock to hang human appendages over the radiator for the stated purpose of determining whether they would mummify. The experiment was a rather spectacular failure.

Sherlock said something vague about taking it in trade for solving "a small dilemma for Crispian’s." John felt him watching keenly under lowered eyelashes while appearing to be concentrating on restringing his bow.

"Well done you, then," said John. "It’s lovely. And clean," he added helpfully, hoping to call to Sherlock’s attention to the difference between the polished surface of the new table and the scarred, cluttered and generally abused surfaces of nearly every other article of furniture in the flat.

"Hmmmm."

Sherlock gave every indication that his violin was potentially explosive by his determined concentration upon it.

* * *

The next night, John claimed another date, leaving it vague, not that Sherlock would care. In fact, though, he took himself off to one of his semi-secret pubs that he expected Mycroft knew all about, but may not have revealed to Sherlock for reasons of competitive advantage.

Downing pint after pint, mechanically watching football, he thought about his dating life, such as it was, women and the occasional man-- not that he advertised it-- he had disappointed them all in rapid succession, without much caring if he saw any one of them again, or anyone at all, really. Except Sherlock. Somehow, a tugging in the center of his chest like an invisible cord pulled him back to Baker Street time after time, despite Sherlock’s frequent — make that constant — bouts of insensitivity, inaccessibility, childishness, churlishness, brilliance, gorgeousness — the list was almost endless.

John closed his eyes. He was gone, far gone, too far gone. The thought bounced about his ale-addled brain: _gone, gone, too far gone._ The telly flashed some nonsense about a fresh scandal involving the royals. He sighed. The pub emptied and last orders were called.

John climbed the stair to 221b more than a little drunk. He shuffled past the lights in the kitchen where Sherlock was poking about in the freezer, and fell face first into his bed where he found it filled with a strange scent. Tobacco, leather, something like bourbon and a dark, faint hint of … vanilla. Nothing like the juvenile cologne Sharon had worn, but John was too inebriated to do more than savor it ever so briefly before falling into a deep sleep. As he sank, he wondered vaguely why the bedcovers felt warm. His brain tried to form a theory (or was it a hypothesis?) as to why this should be so, but he was overtaken by the dreams.

Tonight, probably because of the ale, the worst returned. Afghanistan.

* * *

Gunfire.

Blood.

Darkness.

John tossed and turned in his narrow bed in Baker Street and the nightmare continued.

Somewhere in the dark dreaming he was reaching out for comfort, for safety that was just out of reach.

* * *

The next day John was returning to the flat wearing a beautifully cut suit Mycroft had had specially made for him, pronouncing sternly, “if you are to represent Her Majesty’s government in even the most attenuated capacity, you need to just occasionally look the part.”

His hand was on the doorknob as he heard a high male voice pleading, “Just this once,” and a tall dark man with a movie star’s chiseled features rushed out onto the stair. He paused and looked John up and down with unconcealed jealousy.

"I’ve warmed him up for you, then, have I?" he mocked over his shoulder as he fled down the stair. John bounded into the flat to the astonishing sight of Sherlock draped in an attitude both languid and awkward across the sofa, wearing the very peacock robe from the dj murder, and nothing else.

It could only be described as a pose.

Several reddish pink, darkened spots on the marble flesh of his neck and chest were obviously new, make that very new, love bites. They were even _glistening._

A burning crept slowly up John’s body and settled in his head which felt ready to explode. He wanted to jump downstairs and throttle the man on the stair, beat him to a pulp in fact, and finish him off with his pistol.

"… _although I’m flattered by your interest I consider myself married to my work."_ John mentally threw the words back in Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock made no effort at all to cover himself and although he absolutely had to be aware that John was staring, no, devouring him with his eyes. He gave every appearance of attending only to complex invisible formulae on the ceiling. John stomped off to his own room.

He flung himself into his bed and was disturbed again by the strangely alluring scent in his sheets. Also, his jumper was crumpled under his pillow, which was quite odd because he distinctly remembered putting it away, he knew he had. He kicked the fragrant sheets to the floor and closed his eyes, but sleep would not come for a long time.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock drawled through the closed door.

* * *

Sharon was in need of a suitably employed date for a family wedding. They were staying in Bath for the weekend. John had readily agreed to the plan a fortnight ago, even though he knew attending a wedding, of all things, was exactly the wrong note to strike with Sharon. With anyone, actually. If he thought about why he had agreed to go at all, he could only think, anything to put distance between him and Sherlock Holmes.

But there was another row in the car on the way out of London, with Sharon accusing him of being preoccupied, and Not Paying Enough Attention To Sharon, a capital crime, evidently. John didn't bother to disagree. John flung out of the car into a torrential spring rain, Guilty as Charged. He returned, soaking, to Baker Street.

 _This has to stop,_ he thought. _I have to stop it. It can’t go on. Not like this. I have to end it._ The door to the flat was slightly ajar and John saw that Mrs. Hudson had considerately deposited a bag of provisions just inside the door, to feed Sherlock during his weekend absence. Sherlock would forget otherwise. He was soaked and dripping rainwater everywhere, so he stripped down and draped his trousers and shirt over the radiator. The rain was terrifically loud, like fistfuls of pebbles being dropped from the sky. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

He padded toward his room and was startled to hear a very low voice within. Sherlock’s. Maybe his name. Or maybe a soft curse. A sharp tingling crept slowly up the back of his neck.

If he touched that door, there would be no more hiding, no more secrets from Sherlock or even from himself. His fingers tightened and he swayed a little, stepping back. _John Watson,_ he said, _time to show what you’re made of._ He squared his shoulders and pushed open the door.

Sherlock lay angularly in John’s bed, his eyes flashing up in the gloom as the door swung open. He was wrapped in John’s most hideous jumper, and wearing pajama pants. His hardness outlined against the silk was undeniable, the light from the hall falling across his body just so. John took the two steps to the bed and stumbled, cursed, and went to his knees.

John remembered he was supposed to be in Bath. Sherlock drew back, his expression shocked, silvery eyes in an alabaster face. Carefully, as one might try to touch a great cat, John stretched out his hand, his left hand which was rock steady as he stroked Sherlock’s cheek, just once, just to to be certain this was not another dream. Sherlock’s eyes widened but he didn’t pull away, either.

They stared at each other like that for a long minute.

"It’s really you," he said when he was finally sure that this was real, and pushed Sherlock gently back against the pillows. Sherlock turned his face up, noses bumped and and then with a few intakes of warm breath between them, a brush of lips, soft, inquisitive, neither taking more than the other so that there seemed more space and breath between them than lips and tongue.

“Yes, it's really me," Sherlock murmured against his mouth, which was really all John needed to hear. At last he could touch that hair, feel those lips part, feel those elegant hands explore his back, hot breath against his neck. For a long time nothing more was said and it was very quiet, until Sherlock gasped as John boldly sucked on the fading purple love bite on his neck. "How could you," John murmured as he sucked even harder, deliberately right over the spot.

Sherlock thrashed impatiently but allowed him to keep nibbling persistently at the purple mark, and he was glad of the dark so John wouldn't detect his blush. "Had to show you,” Sherlock whispered shyly against his ear, as though this was a secret, a great and marvelous secret. The last thing John Watson wanted to do right now was talk, now that he was finally touching Sherlock, kissing him, chest to chest, thighs entangled. But this would not do.

"Show me what, exactly? That you would give yourself to that — ponce — before you would condescend to give yourself to me!" John growled, half-playful and half serious, in fact much more serious than he had thought just five minutes before. He started trembling, whether from sheer want or jealousy he couldn’t have said. Probably both.

Sherlock looked into his eyes, unblinking, as though willing him to understand. When it was clear at telepathy was not going to to work, Sherlock grabbed John’s face between his hands.

“Show you. Touch. That I could be touched. By another. That I would — permit — it.”

"Do you mean to tell me you let him suck on your neck, just to make me jealous?"

"Certainly not," Sherlock huffed, "I asked him to do it to leave you a clue. It was one of several." He smiled crookedly. "But you were jealous, John, weren’t you?"

"Let me show you," John said, and he kissed Sherlock with all of the long, lonely longing and storm of feeling that he had locked down deep.

John fumbled for the ties to Sherlock's pajama pants and drew Sherlock's hand to his own, and they worked silently with knots and elastic, pushing and pulling at the unwanted barriers until they had each other's cocks in hand, rubbing and stroking, breathless with the shock of newness. John asked if it was all right, whispered really, because it seemed like a time for whispers, and was Sherlock nodding against his neck and clinging to him so beautifully.

Sherlock looked up with craving and unbelievably, adoration. It took only a few strokes for Sherlock to come hard in a hot slick spurt, gasping his name against his shoulder. But he didn't stop, keeping up with tentative little touches and one daring sweep of tongue, watching John's face all the while. "I've got you now, John," Sherlock whispered as the world went pale and bright.

* * *

"Why didn’t you tell me?" John demanded. They were wrapped in blankets in John’s bed, the electric fire blazing. It was still raining. John thought again of Sherlock alone in his bed, longing, amazingly, too proud to ask.

"It had to be your doing, you had to be the one," Sherlock declared primly, as though explaining some elementary principle of forensics.

"What -- what do you mean by that? Why?"

"I thought…if only I could get you to touch me first, you would —" he struggled. "I thought you would feel right about it. About us. And forget all those . . .others. And I did tell you — with clues, you know."

"You’re a genius. I think it worked. I feel right about it. Very.  So, what were the clues?"

Sherlock looked affronted that John could have failed to understand the signs he had intended to be unmistakably clear.

"First. I kept smelling that awful perfume worn by that woman you were seeing. I thought you must be fond of vanilla as you so often reeked of it. Sorry — but there’s no denying it." Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "I concocted my own formula, with just a very slight touch of vanilla, thinking you might find it appealing."

"Oh, I did. I do. Very much. Where did you learn to mix perfume? Wait, tell me later," John said hastily when Sherlock prepared to launch into a detailed explanation.

"Second. I could see that you fancied that blue robe. The one from the DJ case. And so I had one made up. Don’t try to deny it, John. You were thinking of me wearing it, weren’t you? That day." Sherlock looked smug.

"You bloody well know that I was, so I won’t deny it," John grinned happily.

"Third. I realized I probably needed to give you some evidence that I was able to be civilized in sharing our home. I noticed you were being forced to take your tea standing because of my general shabbiness."

"Too right!"

"Hence the new table and chair from Crispian’s. Fourth, —"

"Skip the fourth clue, I never want to hear another word about that bugger so long as I live. If I see him, I will kill him."

Sherlock knew that John could be perfectly serious. John was rather prone to killing for him, when it came down to it. He distracted John from murder with a lingering kiss.

This was — Sherlock struggled with identifying the correct feeling, but could only form the word “good."

John fell asleep, his face relaxed as a boy’s. Sherlock pulled the covers over him before sliding quietly out of bed to work on his latest experiment on shrinkage of the vitreous fluid of the eye after death.

John would have no nightmares tonight.


End file.
